


Something Pretty

by wearemany



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-19
Updated: 2006-02-19
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boys will be boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Pretty

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Takes place during The Benders, with a few borrowed lines of dialogue.

**Something Pretty**

 

_And I know ugliness, now show me something pretty_

 

Dean can't get laid for the life of him since Sammy showed up. He can't even jerk off in peace. Just that morning he'd been in the shower, doing what he could to make up for their new all work and no play routine. Sam came in to brush his teeth or take a leak or who even fucking cares why, because Dean is willing to lay down his life for the boy but there's such a thing as a private moment. Or there used to be.

He yanks the darts back out of the board and steps back for another try. Sam's drinking beer and squinting at the laptop in the dim light of the bar. Dean's thinking about buying another round, maybe some tequila to boot, and then checking out who's worth checking out.

He worries a little because he can tell he's started thinking of sex as a reward, like a conquering soldier who takes his spoils from the unguarded village coffers. His very first time was with a grateful daughter, way before he realized there was pretty much always going to be another grateful girl, or a sister, or a young widowed mom.

That first time, Dad had looked at him and the girl, whose grandmother they'd just pulled out of this really nasty quicksand hole. "You know what?" Dad said. "I think that fan belt could use a closer look. We'll have to leave in the morning." Then he gave Dean twenty bucks and a slap on the back.

When Dean tried to sneak into the motel room at 4 a.m., his shirt on inside out and his skin still twitching at the thought of Amy's long blond hair draping across her bare back, all Dad said was, "I'm sorry we can't stick around any longer." Apparently that was his version of the "boys will be boys" speech.

Dean was sixteen that summer, his first long solo hunting trip with Dad. Sammy had been at some academic decathlon geek camp, but the sex had created more distance between them than the time apart. Sammy wanted to talk about math, and books he'd read, and whether the Bible could accommodate a belief in quantum physics. Sex was all Dean could think about, everywhere he went. He was sixteen, for chrissakes.

He didn't have much trouble getting some. And even if Dad never seemed to accept more than a cup of coffee from his own grateful women, more often than not he agreeably found a way to kill a few hours while Dean courted the damsel in distress at warp speed. When he'd had enough sex that it seemed to seep out, to show through his skin like a sign worn round his neck that said READY AND WILLING, he started getting offers from girls he hadn't even saved.

A waitress in Wichita pulled him into the changing room, a six by six closet with a few hooks nailed to the wall and eight hundred paper napkins stacked on a shelf. She had her hand in his jeans before he thought to ask her name. Her checkered blouse with the tag attached was already on the floor and she didn't bother to answer until she was putting it back on and wiping lipstick off his chin.

He never told his dad about that one.

Dad and Sammy, they're alike in that way, full of eternal love and heartbroken fidelity. Dean's just different. It's not exactly that he thinks they'd be disappointed as that he doesn't want to forever ruin their fantasy of another happy Winchester man in love. Asking Dad to cool his heels during a few one-night-stands of wistful passion was just not the same as saying, I'll be right back, I just have to bang the nice lady who works the night shift. They know enough to expect Dean to be a hound-dog, to know he'll check out every hot girl in a hundred-mile radius.

It's the part they don't know that's the hardest to ignore.

He was twenty at a rest stop in Iowa when a bus boy walked him through the kitchen to the toilet. The guy opened the door for him, fumbling to find the light, and Dean thought he must be new, to have so much trouble in his own john. But then the door slammed shut, and Dean's back was against the wall. He couldn't remember if he'd done that as a defense mechanism or if someone or something had shoved him. He was pretty damn sure he hadn't unzipped his fly out of fear, though.

After the second time, a Michigan mechanic who swore he could make the Impala's transmission whir like a little baby right up until the moment he took Dean's hands and slid them inside his coveralls, Dean tried to blame it on a demon. Maybe he'd been possessed by the fucking spirit of Freddie Mercury or some shit.

After the next time, he told himself, boy, grow the fuck up. You're a little queer. Being possessed would be way worse than being queer.

All the same, even with twice the options of your average horny guy, he hasn't gotten laid much since he went and got Sammy. Cassie was a fine exception, but all she wound up doing was fueling the fire. He doesn't think it's asking for too much to want a little break from the constant hunt-and-kill dance they've gotten themselves into. They're doing important work, they're doing what Dad tells them, but that doesn't mean he can't get a blow job now and then, does it?

There's a guy in the bar, a guy with hair just a little too long, jeans just a little too tight. His eyes follow along every time Dean throws a dart. He's either a cop or he's thinking like Dean. And really, what's so wrong with thinking like that? It'd be nice to have something pretty to break up all the ugly things they've been fighting off. It'd be nice to take the edge off.

"We should get an early start," Sam says.

"You really know how to have fun, don't you, Grandma?"

Sam's best strategy has always been stubborn silence.

"All right," Dean says. "I'll meet you outside." The guy watching Dean pushes open the men's room door with a hand straight out in front of him, his jacket lifting to reveal a slice of skin between his t-shirt and jeans.

Sammy's already packing up the computer.

"I gotta take a leak," Dean says.

*

The guy's leaning against the wall, one arm casually draped over an open stall door. He's not even pretending he's got another reason to be in there and that takes some crazy kind of cojones given how many Harleys are parked out front.

"You got pretty good aim," the guy says, and backs into the stall.

Dean crowds in with him, pushing the door closed as he slides the guy's shirt up his chest. "Gotta be quick."

"Boyfriend doesn't like to be kept waiting?"

Dean thumbs the button fly open and dips his head to lick that sweet spot where neck meets collarbone. The guy gasps and shoves his hands into Dean's pants.

It's quick after that, colliding elbows in the constrained space making it just rough enough that Dean knows it'll stand out in his memory for a while. Not that he's planning to wait this long again, no fucking way, because now that he's got sweat in his mouth and a hand on his dick it's like he's sixteen all over again, hard and desperate and a little stunned that somebody else is so willing to get him off.

This guy gets him off good, a hard final twist that makes Dean choke down a growl and wonder what it'd be like to get this guy flat on his back for a few hours. That'd be something new. He drops down to the floor to finish things off, one hand spread across the guy's stomach, which is shaking as he pushes into Dean's mouth. This is so much better than hunting demons. He clutches Dean's jacket as he comes, bunching up the material around Dean's throat, pulling him in tighter.

The guy sighs heavily as Dean stands back up. "That quick enough for you?" he asks, and flips his hair out of his eyes. It's enough to get Dean worked up again, and almost enough to make him forget he's got someplace else to be.

Right. He's got somewhere else to be. Sammy is waiting, probably trying to hotwire the car. He better not be fucking with Dean's car. He's got to get out of here.

Of course there's no toilet paper in this shitty bar bathroom. Dean swats at the empty holder. The guy opens the stall and hands back a napkin, wincing in sympathy as Dean cleans up with the rough material.

"I'm Johnny," he says, and Dean knows it's time to leave. There's no doubt it's easier getting into this kind of trouble with a dude, but it sucks to start at introductions when you're halfway out the door.

Dean tucks himself back in, zips up, and touches Johnny's cheek with his knuckles. "Thanks," he says, and walks out.

*

Sam's not in the Impala. He's not in the parking lot, or back in the bar, or anywhere in Minnesota within shouting distance.

Sammy's missing.

*

It's a long fucking night of waiting and worrying, checking his cell phone every twelve seconds and pacing back and forth across the motel room. He can't call Dad. He can't even imagine how badly that conversation would go. A dull roar reverberates like a premonition: "You LOST your BROTHER?"

He lost his brother. He goes through the journal again, through Dad's notes about the phantom disappearances, through the web pages on the laptop Sammy'd bookmarked with local news stories. This isn't the shit he's good at. This isn't his part to play.

He doesn't know how to do this alone any more.

*

The deputy tells him to sit his ass down on the bench and stay there while she gets the traffic cam photos. "Nobody goes looking for a jurisdiction fight when they don't need one," she says.

He sits down. It's your typical small town square. A few trees, a few county officials in cheap suits and ties. Dad was always leaving them somewhere like this, someplace green and innocuous across from a public library or records building. They had a game where they'd rate the circling vehicles for their likelihood of evil: No windows, three points. Blacked out windows, five points.

"It's worse if they did it on purpose," Sammy would say, with that same perfectly frustrating logic he brought to every investigation.

He lost his brother. Twenty-two years of sleeping with one eye open, of wanting to puke every time he heard a scream like Sammy's, and here he is in BFE, Minnesota, with half a lead and no fucking idea who else to call for help.

Church bells ring out the hour in clanging harmony, and Dean wishes he believed in the power of God beyond words and symbols that scare off bogeymen. Sam could use someone who believes in things right now. Someone who would pray, who could offer something up if Sammy came back safe.

Dean would trade himself in a heartbeat, but he doesn't think that's the kind of sacrifice that counts with almighty types. Or unholy ones. He'd give up his car without thinking for a damned second. He'd give up beer and baseball games and every single moment of unguarded happiness he's ever taken just for himself.

He'd give up sex. If he hadn't been thinking with his johnson in the first place, Sammy wouldn't have been out in the parking lot alone.

It's his fault. The only family he has left here with him and --

The deputy calls his fake name from over his shoulder, and Dean stands up. No wallowing. He doesn't have the luxury of blame right now.

*

He feels a fiery rush of rage, tied to that chair, the smell of his burnt jacket still thick in his nose. Even after the little brat is locked away in the closet, he's saying it over and over, muttering it to himself like a prayer. She beats at the door and he whispers, "I will kill you all."

He won't, not now. They're done here. He turns around and Sam's standing in the doorway, all in one piece, a blooming bruise on one cheek but otherwise as healthy as the day he was born.

Sam reaches out and holds Dean by the shoulder. "I'm okay."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Obviously."

*

It's a long walk back to town, and by about mile ten Dean's ready to call it a night. "She could have given us a ride," he says, and Sam chuckles.

"You're such a worrier," Sam says again. It's his new favorite joke. Dean doesn't mind so much yet, but it's not like he's gonna let his younger brother get away with it.

"Yeah, well, you try keeping your cool when I'm locked in a cage with the crazy people. See how well you do."

"You did fine," Sam says.

"You're damn welcome, too. About time you got around to saying thanks. I was ready to --"

Sam stops, but Dean keeps walking. "What? You were ready to what?"

"Nothing," Dean says. Sam still isn't catching up, and Dean turns around, walking backwards so he can at least keep an eye on the stubborn son-of-a-bitch.

Sam grins like the wicked Satan spawn he clearly is. "You made a deal," he says. Fucking psychics. "What, you made a deal with God? You don't even believe in God, Dean. Next time you should only make a bet you're good for."

"There ain't gonna be a next time, you little bastard."

Sam throws back his head and laughs at the moonless sky, and Dean starts walking again.

When Sammy's matching him stride for stride again, he says, "So what'd you promise? I know it wasn't the car."

"I would never give up that car, Sammy, not even to save your hide."

"Your porn stash?"

"I do not --"

"Oh, someone else left Hustler under the driver's seat?"

Dean starts laughing. "Remember that old magazine of mine you found when you were like fifteen?"

"The one you left on my bed just so you could torture me by asking which pages I liked best?"

A big F-250 comes up fast behind them and squeals to a stop on the wet highway. The shadow of a cowboy hat behind the wheel reminds Dean of this big-handed man at a rest stop in New Mexico, chased just as quickly by the memory of two nights ago. He's never having sex again.

"So I gave up porn to get you back safe," he tells Sam as they walk over to the truck. "You better be fucking grateful."

Sam steps up on the bumper, slinging a leg over the tailgate. He reaches down a hand to Dean. "I'll owe you one," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Glace, who only spoils me when I want it. Thanks also to Patrick Park for the lyrics/title, Jamie for knowing I can't resist some good sibling bickering, and the tag team of Punk & Corinna, who can even beta half-blind.


End file.
